


Wayfaring Stranger

by knightofdreams



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, eposette in later chapters yesssss, i'm so sorry just cleaning house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:19:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1766959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofdreams/pseuds/knightofdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That folk AU no one ever needed or wanted</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, it's Ricky. Thanks for sticking with me, kids

"You are incapable of being remotely human!" Eponine hurled the words at him as she opened the door and Grantaire blinked.

"What'd I do this time?" Courfeyrac was cuddling the cat and raised his hand and gave a small apologetic smile in his direction.

"You have the indecency of coming through my window, through four flights of fucking fire escapes when you know you are as sure as fuck aren't  welcomed here!" Grantaire looked down.

"I didn't know where else to go. Landlord kicked me out and now I have no place to stay and I was hoping--"

"Hoping what?! That I would forgive you for running away and leaving me in the neighborhood because of one little shitty detail?!"

"So I can't stay here?"

Eponine groaned and stalk to the kitchen where he noted nervously she was fingering a knife.

Courf sighed and set the cat down. "We'd love to have you here. I'll get the extra blankets and you can have one of the good pillows."

Grantaire tried to look grateful, and Courf smiled slightly and Eponine muttered under her breath about fixing dinner and Courf's ultimate demise. This would only be for a couple days, til Taire could find a gig or a company willing to pick up a recently solo artist. It shouldn't be that hard.

Taire strummed his guitar until Eponine called his name tersely after a few hours of not speaking to him. "Yeah?" Grantaire answered. "Dinner" she told him and he walked over and sat down at the table with Courf, who looked like a kicked retriever puppy. She slammed his plate down violently and Grantaire murmured a quiet thanks.

They ate in silence for twenty minutes until Eponine said "what's with the cat." Grantaire looked at her mildly accusing eyes (yeah, you motherfucker what's up with the fucking cat you goddamned asshole) and swallowed.

"I uh don't know, it's not even mine it just followed me out my building when the landlord kicked me out and I just picked it up."

"What's his name?" Courf asked.

"I don't know. It's not mine, remember?"

"Well he is now" Courf answered, feeding the cat scraps of sirloin "give him a good one."

Grantaire focused on the cat, who meowed at him in return. Orange...tabby? That was what, a brand of cat, right? The little shit looked smug as fuck and smarter than he ever would be. "Apollo. His name is Apollo."

"Ooh" Courf smiled "why Apollo?"

"He's m'favorite Greek God. God of music an' poetry."

Eponine snorted. "Sure it is, Hyancith." She stood up and stretched, a yawn molding her mouth. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

Courf took the plates to the sink and eventually joined his girlfriend in bed after a few stifled yawns.

Grantaire used to sleep at night. But because of extenuating circumstance (involving his old partner and the Brooklyn Bridge) he doesn't get much sleep at night now. He sat in the moonlight coming out the window and played "Wayfaring Stranger" and hoped he could get some sleep in the morning.

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~***

 

Hours later, around 11 in the morning, he hears a voice in his ear. "Taire." He cracks an eye open and it's Eponine, setting a plate of bacon and eggs on the coffee table with a glass of orange juice.

"Hello" he rasps in morning voice. Nixon is on the TV, talking about some godforsaken country the embodiment of the white savior complex needs to help.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you."

"Ah, 's cool, 'Ponine. I figgered y'didn't mean it and youse had something else youse was yelling about."

She smiled weakly and pushed the plate towards him. He swung his legs over the side of the couch and grabbed the fork and shoveled eggs into his mouth. "You were always a good cook" he mumbled in between bites.

"I'm pregnant." She blurted it quickly and Grantaire almost choked on the strip of bacon that he shoveled in his mouth.

"I hope you aren't coming for me for child support because I don't swing in your direction all that often."

She shook her head. "It's not yours. It's Courf's." Grantaire chuckled. Good going, man. "What's the problem, 'Ponine? Courf loves kids."

She looked pained. "That's exactly the problem. He loves it. I don't." Grantaire shook his head.

"Then tell him you don't want it. It's as simple as that."

Eponine groaned. "I tried. He wants to be a father so bad, it is almost pathetic. He expected me to be happy."

"And it probably didn't go as planned, did it?" A loud thunderclap of bitter laughter with a twisted painful expression escaped his old friend's lips. "We've barely spoken to each other." Grantaire knew that feeling, that bitter, malnourished almond taste that was familiar to persons of misfit origin like himself and Eponine. "Courf had the best life with thousands of beautiful sunflower memories scattered in a field and he feels I'm ruining it with my 'I don't want to turn into my mother' and cynicism." Grantaire clasped her shoulder.

"You're nothing like her, you hear? Ain't a snowball's chance in hell of that happening. You'll be fine." Eponine's warm eyes filled with tears and she buried her head into the warm crook of Grantaire's neck. "That's it" Grantaire murmured "you need to cry."

"Shut up" she blubbered "I don't cry, I don't." Grantaire hummed. "Why is crying a bad thing?" "I'm a weak woman, and no one will take me seriously." Grantaire half-smiled. "Same thing goes with men. Ain't a weakness, it just means you're human, girlie."

She sniffled. “You don’t smell like a wino anymore.” He smiled grimly, remembering the phone call that had stopped him in the middle of the night. “Things change, and people catch them on the way to somethin’ better. I decided I wouldn’t be that person no more, an’ here I am now.”

“You’re still a piece of shit. You had me worried for months when you went on tour. Didn’t call, didn’t write. I thought the worst and here you come through the window after climbing four flights of fire escape ladders thinking you can waltz into my life like some deluded beatnik king.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No you aren’t, you shitstick. Everything you touch turns into shit, even your relationships. You’re like King Midas’ idiot brother, but better looking.”

He smiled, and with slight of hand, vanished a little bit of that hurt into magic. Eponine was angry, and he knew she was angry for a reason. So he might as well get comfy for the barrage of insults that were going to fall his way.

If it meant he could stay close to her, it was alright with him.

She got up and headed to the closet. “Get your coat.”

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “Get your coat, Ganymede, we’re going people watching with a friend.”

“Eponine, you made friends?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m a very sociable person, dumbass. His name is Combeferre, and I think you would like him.”

Grantaire nodded, slightly skeptical. “Okay, where are we meeting him at?”

“Tompkins Square Park.”

Grantaire swore. “It’s so fucking far.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “You can work off that pudge I see sticking out of your gut then.” She poked him in the ribs, and he swore he could feel the finger on the other side of his body.

He laughed slightly. “Okay, but as long as you promise we go to Katz’ on the way back, Eponine, and you got a deal.” She gave him a thumbs-up and they walked out the apartment and down the stairs.

“But seriously, I really think you’d like Combeferre. He’s an interesting guy, a scientist.”

Grantaire rose an eyebrow. “Yeah? What’s the brainiac studying?”

“The effects of LSD on creativity.” Eponine gave him a proud smile. “What a good one, huh?”

“So he studies people tripping and they give him money?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yeah, that is the basics of it.”

Grantaire laughed quietly. 1968 they decide to give acid to humans to see if they could come up with a Tchaikovsky, imagine what could be next, give cocaine to Wilma Rudolph to see if she can run across water, or maybe turn the crazy bum on his old street into one of those success stories he sees on the lady rags they have in the stores.

It was colder than when he climbed the fire escape, he could feel his balls shrivel up in his old Levi’s from frost bite. He wished that he happened across a jacket just lying around on one of the chairs that they usually have at the bodegas around the corner.

“You okay?” Eponine asked “how thick is that jacket?”

“Thick enough” he answered and she narrowed her eyes and grabbed the jacket. It wasn’t anything more than flannel, and not even a heavy flannel, but the material they use to make work shirts.

“You’re going to freeze to death, you dick! Don’t you have anything better?”

Grantaire shifted, freezing and already socially uncomfortable. “If I say no will you be okay with that?” Eponine made a frustrated noise and pulled him in the direction of a donate box.

“Eponine” begged Grantaire “those are for people who need it. I’m fine, I promise.”

“The hell you are! You need it, one hobo won’t mind, you fucker.” She dug through the box and held up a decent sized trench coat and a leather jacket in both fists. “They’re both pretty warm” she mused. “Choose one.”

“I don’t want to choose one because they’re for people who need them.”

Eponine’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’re taking both and I’m getting you new clothes.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes I do. Don’t think anything of it. When you get a good royalty off your solo you can give me what I spend back. You good with that?”

He grimaced. “Do I have much of a choice?”

Eponine tapped her lips in thought. “Now that I think about it, you don’t.” She handed him the jacket and he slipped it on, bitter and grateful.

Good job you good for nothing louse, his head told him, now you even have her bailing out your sorry ass. You deserve to get frost bite.

He was good at hating himself and not letting Eponine see. She would hate him even more if she heard the things going around his head. Which is why he was grateful for her not being a mind reader. Then she would be unstoppable.

His heart pounded painfully in his chest, one loud, sharp painful rap after the other. He struggled for breath, but the cold wind cut everything going down his lungs. He was stuck inside his head like that for the entire trip but only came out of it when he heard Eponine say “oh well look at what the cat dragged in.”

Tompkins was just across the street, but a man stood at the light, waving his hands at the sight of them. “Eponine” the man smiled “you’re early.”

She gave him a wide grin. “I toldja I had it in me. This is my friend R Grantaire.” Eponine nodded at Combeferre and said “R, this is my friend Combeferre.” Combeferre smiled. “I also go by ‘Ferre, if that’s a little easier to remember.”

R smiled cautiously “Eh, I got a better memory than Eponine gives me credit for. How are you, Combeferre?”

“Fine, thank you for asking. It’s cold out.”

“That it is, my friend, that it is.”

An awkward silence formed between the three of them. Eponine clasped her hands. “So who wants to take a walk ‘round the park and talk about some Plato, huh?”

She hooked her arms in between the both of them and Combeferre and Eponine talked for two hours about the great Greek philosophers. Grantaire just listened, taking stock in things, and glad he had time to be in his brain (however scary that made his stomach feel).

“You’ve been quiet, friend” Combeferre observed “what are you thinking about?” Grantaire looked up, surprised to have been noticed, and felt his cheeks heat up. “Not much, Combeferre. I was just actually thinking about how I was sort of missing my guitar.”

“That’s right! Eponine told me you were a musician. A damn good one too.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. Eponine hid her proud smile and stood watching the other side of the park.

“I get by on my records. I’m okay.”

Combeferre smiled good naturedly. “I’ve heard you in some of these bars around Greenwich. You’re damn good. You haven’t made another album with your partner, by the way. What happened?”

All of the breath was knocked out of Grantaire as he remembered unwillingly the phone call and that cold night.

“He…” his voice caught in his throat “he committed suicide. Jumped off the George Washington Bridge.”

Eponine’s head whipped towards him and Combeferre looked suddenly really ashamed for asking. “I’m...I’m sorry.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Not your fault. He made his choice, and he left on his own terms.”

He left me all alone was what Grantaire wanted to say, but he couldn’t let himself say it. Eponine looked as if she had heard, and wanted to simultaneously cry and hit him hard. “Did you, ah, did they call you about it or…?”  “He called me before the cops came. He jumped and I couldn’t do anything about it. Can we, uh, can we not talk about this?”       

Eponine nodded quickly and turned the conversation to something light. Grantaire tried to follow the words she spoke as best as he could, but all he could think of was his partner and how could you do this to me. How could you be so selfish? I needed you and you leave. How utterly selfish can you get?

Slowly he swam up from the depths of himself and noticed, that from behind Combeferre’s glasses his grey eyes followed Grantaire’s moves and face intently. Grantaire met his eyes unguardedly and Combeferre looked away, a faint blush covering his cheeks. “So did I tell you about the time I met Allen Ginsberg?”

Eponine looked at him skeptical. Combeferre raised his eyebrows. “No shit?” Grantaire nodded at them both. “No shit. I was near Barnard and there he was handing out pamphlets about boycotting the war.”

“And so I said to him ‘aren’t you the guy who wrote ‘Howl’?’ and he nodded proudly and asked me if I read any of his other books and I told him the ones I could get my hands on, at least. Then I remembered I had a doctor’s appointment, said goodbye to the man and got on my way.”

“That’s such an anti-climax” Eponine complained “can’t you make it more interesting?”

“I don’t lie, Eponine. It would be a breach on my ethics.”

Eponine laughed. “What ethics, you asshole?”

He shook his head, bemused, and scratched his head. Grantaire watched as Combeferre smiled slightly at him and took Eponine to the corner to whisper things. Grantaire watched curiously as she clasped her hands and had a wide smile. “Well” Eponine announced, “I have to cut early, Courf should be home. Combeferre will take good care of you, he’ll get you the clothes you need. Bye!”

 

 

“Well” Combeferre said brightly, I have some things I don’t need, and that way you can use that money to go on the road to Nashville.” Grantaire side-eyed the tall bespectacled brunet and waited for him to continue.

“I have a friend whose father owns a record company in Nashville” Combeferre continued, unperturbed by the looks of the people passing him “I’m sure she can get her father to record an album for you.”

“You aren’t one for subtlety, are you, point dexter?”

“It gets in the way for talking to people, James Dean” Combeferre retorted, a pink flush in his cheeks.

“Too dark t’be him” Grantaire muttered. “Nose is too big.”

“Take the fucking compliment, y’asshole.”

Grantaire smiled, liking when the guy swore at him. "You curse, Point Dexter?" Combeferre shook his head, faintly amused. "Does anyone tell you that you are impossible?" Combeferre opened his wallet and took out a roll of twenties. "Where the fuck did ya get that?"

"Habit. I was a drifter before being a scientist, and I tend to take some of my money with me when I go. Here you go, buddy." He pressed the money into Grantaire's hand and smiled shyly before walking away. As Combeferre was a distance away, he called overr his shoulder "if you get to Nashville on time, I'll have some friends help you out, friend. See you, man."

~*~*~*~

Hours later, he was being fussed on by Eponine as she tried to get him ready for his trip.

"Be careful, you fuck, I don't want any bad news coming my way."

"I promise, 'Ponine."

Courfeyrac smiled and clasped his shoulder, and spoke words in French.

"You too, bud." Grantaire answered, not understanding at all.

The door closed behind him. His journey was on.  

 


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys! Thank you for reading this!

“NUMBER 204 GOING TO MEMPHIS NUMER 204 GOING TO MEMPHIS APPROACH” screamed a lady on the boarding terminal of the train, effectively waking Grantaire up and ruining any chance he had for sleep.

 

Mumbling, he stumbled up into the train and was directed to his sleeping car (because the bastard scientist gave him quite a bit of money and there was no way it would take one royalty check to pay it all back), and ran into a person wearing more flowers in their hair than Patroclus with a herd of nymphs at his back. 

 

“M sorry” he muttered, rubbing bleary eyes “lemme help you get yer things together.”

 

The man smiled serenly. “I would appreciate that very much, sir. You’re very kind.”

 

“Don’t mention it. Ain’t no problem.”

 

His eyes cleared of sleep a tad and he saw that the man had a shock of red hair, and he stood next to a bemused man with a mess of a black beard and tangled black hair and a flannel shirt and work boots. Behind that man had to be the scariest man Grantaire ever saw, with bulging muscles, jet black hair tied back into a knot at his neck and the earthiest adobe skin he had ever seen.

 

“You normally travel with mountain man and the Scary Asshole of the Year?”

 

The Scary Asshole of the Year threw back his head and roared with laughter, while the mountain man chuckled.

 

“Yes, I do” said the redhead patiently “we play in a band together.”

 

“No shit?”

 

“No shit” agreed the redhead “the name’s Jean Prouvaire, but you can call me Jehan.”

 

“I’m Feuilly” greeted the mountain man “scary asshole of the year over here is Bahorel.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Spaniard” Bahorel greeted.

 

“Ye’re half close on that one. Mom’s Spaniard, dad’s Cuban.”

 

“Shit!”

 

“I know. Good thing he knew the right people.”

 

Jehan pushed Grantaire into their car, where he sat next to Feuilly, who tuned a Fender and hummed his pitches.

 

“Isn’t he good at tuning?” Jehan said dreamily. “He has perfect pitch.”

 

“Not bad. Can you sing?”

 

“Fucking mediocre at it if that’s what you’re talkin’ about” mumbled Feuilly from his beard.

 

Two cries of “liar” and “bullshit” came from Bahorel and Jehan.

 

“You sing like Johnny Cash and Dave Van Ronk” said Jehan seriously “and don’t you forget that, you got it?”

 

Feuilly turned a rosy color and turned back to his guitar.

 

Jehan turned back to Grantaire and asked him if he was in a band. 

 

“Actually, ‘m a solo act” he said uncomfortably “I got a solo deal down in Nashville and I thought I’d take it.”

 

 _Please don't ask me any more questions about it,_ Grantaire silently begged. 

 

There was a pause. 

Jehan seemed satisfied and turned the conversation to other diverse topics. At 5:00 in the afternoon they started with Greek philosophers, and then the conversation at 11, when two parties were Fitzgerald drunk, and two as sober as the Buddha stood off, in a strange battle of wits that can only happen when one is sober and one is as drunk as a fish at a funeral. 

 

“You should play us something” Jehan giggled, hiding his glee into the whiskey bottle Bahorel had. Bahorel nodded eagerly, but gave Grantaire the impression that he wanted to also sock the wall and leave his mark.

 

Grantaire, unfortunately sober as a doctor, became very hesitant. “My guitar’s ‘sin the other room.”

 

“Well go geddit” hiccuped Bahorel “anf Feuilly can gew and play wif you.”

 

Feuilly, also sober, snapped his head up with alarming speed that Grantaire was worried for the mountain man’s neck. “I don’t think--”

 

“I can’t--”

 

Jehan cut them off with a drunk sway and swish of his arm. “No buts. You go get yo’ guitar now, friend, and play something with the genius that’ll blow me away.

”

He looked at Feuilly, who looked apologetic and shrugged as if to say oh what the hell.

 

Sighing, Grantaire rose to go get his guitar, when out of the corner of his eye he saw Jehan and Bahorel start to kiss furiously, and messily to the looks of the discomfort in Feuilly’s eyes.

 

He walked down the aisle carefully, but then knocked shoulders with someone else. 

 

“Sorry” he said quickly, staring at the most beautiful man he ever saw in his life. 

 

Hair made out of gold cut in the style of James Dean messed with the shockingly clear and obscenely beautiful eyes. A grin softened his features and he shrugged. “Ain’t no problem” the stranger said, and continued on his way towards the opposite side of the aisle.

 

Shaking himself clear, Grantaire went to his sleeping bunk, and pulled his guitar from his bag and made his way back to the compartment where Jehan and Bahorel had pulled themselves away from each other and looked at both Grantaire and Feuilly expectantly. 

 

Grantaire seated himself down against Feuilly again, and whispered to him “you know Fare thee Well?” 

 

“O’ course I do” he muttered back “on the count of three we start, okay? One, two...three” 

 

The tune began to play.

If I had wings like Noah's dove

I'd fly up the river to the one I love

Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well

The chords were ringing through the night, and Grantaire remembered why he loved music so much. It was the feeling, the magic of strumming a few strings and getting lost in the way it sounded, the way the calluses on his fingers hurt so good, and how much it lifted his heart and soul to just sing his heart to strangers. Some people were in it for the cash, but Grantaire was in it for the happiness he felt. 

 

If I met your man, who was long and tall

I'd hit his body like a cannon ball

Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well

 

One of these days and it won't be long

Call my name and I'll be gone

Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well

Feuilly had developed the most beautiful smile on his face as he sang, and he gave Grantaire a wink, and Grantaire had to keep his focus on singing so he wouldn’t laugh right in the middle of the song.  

 

I remember one night, a drizzling rain

Round my heart I felt an achin' pain

Fare thee well, oh honey, fare thee well

 

When I wore my apron low

Couldn't keep you from my do'

Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well

 

Now I wear my apron high

Scarcely ever see you passing by

Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well

The song was winding down, and Feuilly and Grantaire ended by doing it with just their voices, the way these things had been done so long ago.

Now my apron's up to my chin

You pass my door and you won't come in

Fare thee well, oh honey, fare thee well

 

If I had listened to what my mama said

I'd be at home in my mama's bed

Fare thee well, oh honey, fare thee well

Their voices died down on the last note, and Grantaire and Feuilly looked at each other with shining eyes as Bahorel and Jehan cheered. 

 

“Beautiful” cried Jehan “magnifique!”

 

“Damn great” Bahorel cried “what a pair of voices, the both of ya!” 

 

Feuilly had clasped his hand, and Grantaire found a ringing bell of happiness at the touch of his hand. 

 

Bahorel and Jehan curled around each other and fell asleep in ten minutes and Feuilly kissed Grantaire softly on the lips.

 

“I wanted to do that before we reached our stops” he whispered “and a little more, but that depends if you’re willin’”

 

“More than willin’, doll” Grantaire promised “ready and roarin’ to go, if I’m gonna be honest with myself.”

 

The night ended with Grantaire falling asleep happy, a thing he hadn’t done for a year.  

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Two days later, Grantaire reached his stop, and Feuilly had pressed a piece of paper in his hand. “Please don’t disappear” was what he had said. Grantaire smiled at the paper fondly. As if forgetting was a thing he could do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect more in the coming weeks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me

“What do you mean, this is where the train stops at?” Grantaire said, gritting his teeth. The idiot worker shrugged and said “we got no more stops. We’re due back to the station to pick more people up.”

“What the fuck” Grantaire said in a well worn voice of irritation. “Ah, shit. Ah, fuck. Shit. Fuck.” He felt a tap on his shoulder, and a man with a smattering of freckles and apprehension on his face.

“Are you R Grantaire?”

He looked at the man suspiciously. “Yes. And you are?”

The man looked relieved. “I’m Joly, and over there” he pointed to a bald man and a fierce looking woman “is Bossuet and Musichetta. We’re supposed to bring you to Nashville.”

“You got a car, Freckles?”

“We do” he acknowledged. Joly motioned towards his companions, who promptly walked off in the lead to a late model Chevelle (probably a ‘67, Grantaire thought). The woman slid in the back seat and Grantaire, not knowing what to do, slid in with her.

The two men had a small argument. “Bossuet, you know you can’t drive when you’re drunk.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s wrong, for starters.”

“Says the man who is a tipsy shit at the wheel” says Musichetta. Noting the big smile on the Joly, Grantaire settled down and got ready to watch the land pass.

The three others talked avidly about, for no other reason, god and why he is the way he is.

“I’m not saying he’s there, I’m just saying he’s a fucking asshole.”

“What do you mean?” Bossuet asks seriously.

“I’m saying fuck God is all.”

The car got strangely quiet. Then laughter burst from the two men and Musichetta shook her head, amused and tired.

“I’m guessing you have issues with the man upstairs” Grantaire said.

“Well hell” Joly said “course we do. Everything we do provokes him and we’re tired being his poor idiot children who never do anything right.”

“Don’t you have a problem with him?” Bossuet asked.

 

Grantaire fought the urge to look at the passing landscape like some Hemingway asshole. “I have more problems with myself than I do the guy at the pearly gates with the long white beard.”

“You know whatever happened to you wasn’t your fault, right?” Musichetta said. Grantaire laughed darkly. “That’s not what I hear from the control tower” he tapped the side of his head with a bitter smile.

The car went quiet and Bossuet struggled not to hurt himself trying to get a harmonica from a bag under the seat. Joly looked at Musichetta knowingly, and Grantaire looked confused and somewhat apprehensive. “That isn’t for me, right?”

“Of course not” Joly scoffed “this is for Bossuet and how he makes time fly right out the window.”

Bossuet fixed himself up real pretty. Straightened up, chin out, lips to harmonica. Then out of nowhere he played a riff that sounded like a bastardization of a Scott Joplin melody.

“fixed melody swing” Joly sang.

“Starlight and stardust ain’t cut out for me

If y’all hear my plea

Hang me up suspender tops to the kingdom ruled by the sun

Sunshine man with a sunshine plan

Don’t make no difference to me”

Musichetta added her voice.

“I live in a kingdom by the sun

Where the love is free and never is done

Branches of twilight we never do see

Because the kingdom of sun loves so solidly.”

The two harmonized together.

“Sunshine man, oh I love your sunshine plan

Give me a heart and I’ll break it for you

Give me a tune and I’ll sing it so true.”

 

They rode in the throes of singing melodies for two hours. Stopping occasionally for gas and rest, they made it outside of Tennessee. Bossuet brought out a banjo and played Roving Gambler while Musichetta and Joly sang and Grantaire tried to figure out just how many instruments they had in this damn car and why would they have them here in the first place.

 

Outside of a diner, Musichetta took him by the arm and pulled him aside.

“I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why would you do that? I’m fine.”

Musichetta gave him the Look, the ultimate destroyer of lies and false sentences. “Don’t start with me, R. Remember I can call Eponine whenever I like and have her talk to you.”

Grantaire shuddered and sighed tiredly. “I’m just tired, Chetta. I don’t have one crutch and I’m hobbling around trying to deal with things sober and I am not built for living sober.”

“You’re built for living, you moron. So what if your partner jumped? It was his decision, not yours. The only time you should feel bad is if you think your decision wasn’t right. Just ask Eponine about Cosette one of these days. She’ll tell you.”

“What?”

“You heard me, R. Now I want you to feel better, so we’re ordering apple pie. Because why the hell not? I’m feeling generous and philanthropic.”

The night ended with drunken and sober Socratic debates and apple pie being passed around, and Grantaire slept for the second successful night.

 

Grantaire woke up in the empty car, head on his guitar case and an old throw blanket covering him. He rubbed his eyes and looked out the window.

“Nashville” he read on the sign. “I’m here.”

“Of course you are.” said a voice and he turned around, startled, to see Musichetta hand him a packet of papers and an envelope.

“Thanks, Chetta” he said.

She smiled warmly. “Don’t mention it.”

Joly looked at him with an energetic demeanor and a wide grin. “I’ll be ready to buy that record soon, R.”

“Just make sure it’s not fragile” added Bossuet, with a guilty smile.

He felt a laugh in his throat and he smiled at them and waved as they drove away.

Grantaire turned around and ran into the man he had seen in the train.

“I’m sorry” he apologized.

The golden man shook his head. “Naw, don’t worry.” he said and headed off in an unknown direction.

Grantaire saw a phone on the corner, and walked towards the booth with the intent of calling Mr. Fauchelevent. He picked up the phone and fed it a few quarters and put in his number.

“I’m here, sir. Yes I’ll wait. Thank you sir, dinner would be nice.”

He hung up and sat on the curb, playing songs from his memory.

A dark haired man with a perpetually confused expression waved at him from the window of a car. “R? R Grantaire?” Grantaire nodded. “Hey there, Pontmercy. It’s been a while.”

“You have no idea.”

Grantaire opened the car door and they rode away.

“Still married to Cosette?”

“Yeah. Still drinking Jack Daniel’s?”

“Naw.”

Marius looked at him surprised. “Well good.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me at arocronus.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> I get off of hiatus on the seventh of July so come and talk to me on nobleprometheus.tumblr.com o.k?


End file.
